


An Unwanted Feeling

by Arrestzelle



Category: Rammstein
Genre: First Kiss, Herzeleid Era, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 17:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15417906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: In 1994, just as they're beginning to make some progress, Paul realizes he has a rather sudden infatuation on their other guitarist. But he doesn't want to cause the destruction of their newborn band, so he decides to keep it to himself. Eventually, it comes to light despite his efforts.





	An Unwanted Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> This is a request on Tumblr for an Anon! If you send me something simple and cute like this prompt, I might write something for you, too. Do it over on Tumblr, though, not through the comments on here.

Never before has Paul faced a situation like this. In the past, Paul just approached a woman if he found her attractive, flirted, played around, until they eventually fell into bed. Now, he can’t practice any part of his usual method. Now, he has to control his urges and simply admire from afar. He doesn’t want to ruin what’s been built. He doesn’t want to uproot the flower just before it’s begun to grow.

It’s 1994 and they’re staying in a small house surrounded by trees on all sides. It’s a modest, almost ramshackle little place, rented out for the time being as they record their debut album. The atmosphere here is electric and relaxed at the same time: they’re eager to get their feet on the ground, but they’re not rushing it. They’re enjoying the good vibrations as they last.

Schneider is on the drums now, creating a great, big fucking racket as Ollie handles the soundboard. Till and Flake are gone, on an errand with their manager to fetch some food. Paul is lounging on one of the torn couches in the confining room, with Richard seated on the swiveling chair, idly spinning himself with lazy pushes against the floor, a cigarette between two fingers. Paul smiles faintly to himself, watching his bandmate turn himself in the seat while languidly sucking at his cigarette. Schneider’s drum playing continues filling the entire damn house as they just sit there, together, silently.

Richard is wearing only his red basketball shorts. Considering how hot it is, Paul himself wears only his comfortable cargo pants, shirtless himself. No words are shared between them. Richard has that pouty look on his face, so Paul decides to leave him be. He just continues spinning in the seat, until his cigarette is spent and he has nothing left to distract himself with. Richard sighs, plants a foot on the ground to stabilize himself again, and then reaches out to smash the cigarette butt into the cluttered ash tray. Then he gets up, stretches by linking his fingers and arching his arms above his head—Paul’s eyes immediately latch onto the muscle that flexes around his ribcage.

With a deep exhale, Richard lets his arms swing back down and then looks over at Paul with an arched brow. Paul smiles at him. Richard turns to the doorway and begins towards it slowly, calling with disinterest over his shoulder, “Want a drink, Paul?”

Paul’s smile becomes broad.

“Yeah! Just a water would be great.”

“You got it.”

Paul watches him retreat through the door, hand raising to knock into the doorframe as he departs.

Butterflies dancing in his belly, Paul comes to realize he’s got it fucking _bad_ for him—and he does not like it. There’s no way he could possibly act on it. He doesn’t want to cause a disturbance in the waves, not when their work is just beginning.

 

* * *

 

For two weeks they’re trapped in the small house, recording, discussing, producing. Paul is probably a little more distracted than he should be. His infatuation for Richard, as unwanted as it may be, is not fading. He often finds himself watching him—whether he’s playing on his guitar, seated at the dinner table talking animatedly with the others, sleeping in a mess of sheets on one of the beds, smoking a cigarette outside with the setting sun falling slowly behind him, or simply walking around in only his basketball shorts. Paul tries not to let it show. Sometimes, Flake looks at him strange as if he caught Paul staring—after all, he knows him so well—but for the most part, no one seems to notice. And especially not Richard. He’s completely oblivious.

Yet, still, he refuses to let it come to light. He doesn’t want to ruin everything.

So he writes his feelings down, just to get it _out._ He was always a verbal, direct man. He faced a problem head-on and without hesitance. But this time, it has to be reduced to only the written word, like a nasty secret. Which it is. It’s just for the sake of expelling these feelings from within himself. Maybe once he gets them out, they’ll dissipate.

In the form of a letter to the man himself, Paul pretends he’s confessing with complete honesty. His frustration, his attraction, his undeniable desire to fuck his brains out. The night he writes it, Paul folds it up, shoves it into his notebook which holds all his notes on the production process. He’ll throw it out later—he’s exhausted and he needs to get some sleep for the busy day tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Paul, what’s this?”

Paul is kneeling under the dining table in the kitchen, scrubbing up the beer he spilled everywhere—it’s stuck in the crevices of the tiles, so it’s taking a bit longer than usual. Richard’s voice speaking up reaches his ears, from the doorway which leads into the kitchen. He hums with question as he vigorously wipes at one stubborn spot on the floor, unaware of the sound of rustling paper and the heavy silence from Richard. He waits a moment longer, and when no answer comes, Paul throws the rag down and peeks out from under the table with an arched brow. Richard is standing there, dressed in his red jeans with the suspenders and white shirt, his hair combed over like usual in that rather attractive hairstyle. Paul is enamored by how handsome he looks, until he realizes he has an open envelope in his hands, as well as an unfolded letter.

“What the fuck!” Paul sputters, immediately scrambles out from under the table to climb onto his feet and dart to Richard, violently snatching the letter out of his hands. Richard looks at him with wide eyes, stunned.

“I—I was just checking your notes, ‘cause I remembered you said something about—” Richard begins, stammering with a red face.

“How much did you read?” Paul snaps, interrupting him, as he crushes the letter in his hands, like he should’ve done days ago. Horror sits in his gut like a rock. His heart begins to pound, his face erupting with a burning heat. Even so, his gray eyes are unwaveringly trained on Richard’s, conveying the mixture of his anger and disbelief. Richard rubs his lips together nervously, looks away over Paul’s shoulder, his hands clenching into anxious fists. Then he shakily meets Paul’s firm gaze and says quietly, “Not much.”

Sighing, Paul runs a hand up through his messy blonde locks and then says flatly, agitated, “But enough, I’m guessing.”

Richard manages a slight, awkward smile and nods, looks away again.

“Look,” Paul begins, crossing his arms with a deep frown on his face, earning Richard’s uncertain green eyes again, “It doesn’t have to mean anything. I just wrote that shit down just to get it out of my head. I don’t want you to think I’ll be trying anything, because I won’t. I just want to finish recording this fucking album and move on.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment. Richard bites his lip, drops his gaze to the floor. He mirrors Paul by crossing his arms as well. He nods. Paul just watches him, expectantly, with an arched brow. Richard clears his throat, glances up at him, a strained, forced smile on his face.

“Well, it’s not… Totally… Unreciprocated.”

Paul stares at him blankly.

“…What.”

Richard laughs lightly, nervously, and shrugs with a raise of both hands. Then he rubs one over the back of his neck, the other falling to slap against his jean-clad thigh as he stammers with an avert of his eyes, “Paul, I kind of was thinking of you the same way. Not—Not, well, not quite to _that_ level but. I was entertaining the thought of… Of…”

“Spit it out, Richard,” Paul says, his entire body burning up again, his brow knit and teeth clenched. He watches the younger man fidget and hesitate. Eventually, Richard does spit it out by saying with a nervous, wide grin and an avoidance of Paul’s eyes, “I was thinking of fucking you, too, alright?”

Paul is in disbelief. He looks at Richard like he just told him he wants to fuck him—which is exactly what just fucking happened. He stares at him with an agape mouth and bewildered eyes. Richard raises a hand to press it over his own red face, shakes his head.

“That came out so… Poorly,” he mutters. Paul is speechless. He really can’t find any words to say. Richard drops his hand, sighs heavily, and then searches Paul’s shocked expression with an almost fond smile. He then steps closer. Paul reflexively, defensively lifts his hands, his eyes widening. Richard reaches out, cups the sides of his face a little too roughly, fingers sliding into messy blonde locks, thumbs resting over his cheeks. Paul is frozen, gray eyes wide and trained on Richard’s, which bore determination.

Leaning in, Richard angles his head and crushes their lips together. Paul makes a slight noise, hands jerking up to clutch at the cotton of Richard’s white shirt. Richard kisses him with firm purses of his mouth—nothing too heavy. Paul appreciates the fact he isn’t shoving his tongue in his mouth, but he’s also not sure how to feel beyond that. With a furrowed brow, he looks at Richard’s face, his closed eyes, before he closes his own and begins to kiss him back. With a little too much force, Paul mouths at his lips, unthinkingly jumping too far ahead—he bites his bottom lip between his teeth, earns a shocked noise from Richard.

Drawing back, Richard looks at him with a surprised expression on his red face, his hands continuing to clutch at his boyish face. That kiss was not good. But it was not too bad, either. This is awkward. Paul is feeling a little too overwhelmed, but this is the catalyst and like hell he’s going to miss this chance now that he’s discovered Richard is willing. He reaches up to clutch Richard’s hands in his own, brings them down to rest them across his sides, his smaller hands outstretched across Richard’s.

“If this is going to happen,” Paul begins, searching in Richard’s wide emerald eyes, “It has to happen now.”

Richard pauses, and then he nods with a more neutral expression on his face. Paul takes his wrist, begins to pull him towards the cluster of bedrooms on the other end of the small house.

The others are gone—Schneider and Ollie went to lunch with their manager, Till and Flake went to pick up some equipment—so they have plenty of time. Replacing Paul’s anxiety is anticipation.

As soon as they’re within their small, shared bedroom with the dresser pushed in front of the door, Paul grabs Richard, shoves him up against the wall, and decides he’s going to kiss him until he can’t breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


End file.
